Dec 28, 2010

As an 8-year-old, Jurassic Park held remarkably little sway over me in the days before I saw the film. I'd been caught up in hype before: Disney's Beauty and the Beast was my favorite movie by far for a time, and I remember counting down the days before I got to see it (seven times in theaters, a record unmatched by any film until Inglourious Basterds) and even being something of a prick towards my parents when I didn't get to go see it right away. Similarly, I'm pretty sure that word of the production of Home Alone 2 made me jump with excitement. I liked dinosaurs terrifically as a child; in the case of Jurassic Park, you'd think I'd have been jumping out of my skin. Alas, the preview was memorable but, once passed, left little impression on my young mind.

The reason, I think, is that at even that early point in time, I had mentally checked Steven Spielberg as someone to watch out for, in a bad way (ironic now, I know). E.T. had already rubbed me the wrong way, so clearly I was the one who had gotten off on the wrong foot (other than that negative feeling, I don't remember watching it, only knowing that it had happened). A few years later, I'd see and love Duel, but for now I was confronted with a film that had earned important notice amongst people my age (along with pogs, among other things of such importance) and, concurrently, in the local newspaper for having drawn such young interest in a PG-13 rated movie. My dad showed me editorials and cartoons on the matter as if (a) I gave a shit (I hadn't pressed to see the film, and would later be denied access to see The Nightmare Before Christmas; adventurous, my parents always are) and (b) such noise was worthwhile (already, media banter struck me as reactionary and inane). And when my first chance came to actually go see the movie, I actively dismissed it. Even I don't get my weirdness sometimes.

Suffice to say, when I finally was able to see it (a few months into its run, around Halloween, I remember), Spielberg's film disturbed me profoundly. I wasn't entertained so much as paralyzed, from the opening scene on (even the jovial first half couldn't overcome the effect). I remember ticking off the number of people who had died in the film, finding it (the film) to be horribly, sickeningly exploitative (this being the second time such an effect had happened to me: a terrible disaster picture in a tropical setting, When Time Ran Out, made for a disturbing television experience several years earlier; with no concept of special effects, these people drowning and burning were actually dying to my young eyes). My anger at the film culminated in the form of a written letter to one Mr. Spielberg, in which I disparaged him for wallowing in perceived filth and gore. I'm unsure of what happened to this letter; part of me wishes to read it, while another hopes it no longer exists, so as to not become potential blackmail fodder.

In time, I came to enjoy Jurassic Park (for the record, I've now possessed four copies of the film, the first, a VHS, being a gift, later a widescreen VHS, and two DVDs, the most latter bought for the purposes of this 'thon because the first DVD copy is still on loan to the co-host himself!), and more recently, to love it quite unabashedly. A late-night solo viewing of the film two or three years ago convinced me of its singularity: as an action film, as an auteurist vision, as a blockbuster, as a humanist statement. It's a masterpiece, and I'd go so far as to call it life-affirming. Among the many recommendables: Spielberg's exquisite character shorthand, a finely tuned orchestra, of performers, and the visual effects, which - although easier to spot these 17 years later - are still an enthralling landmark in digital evolution. The nighttime T-Rex attack might be the finest f/x set piece ever filmed, and that's coming from a died-in-the-wool Terminator fan (and you can throw all six Star Wars on the keeper pile, too).

What I eventually realized, with so much hindsight, was that Jurassic Park disturbed me at that age because this was a film that took death seriously. Unlike most of the flimsy monster movies I'd seen up until that time -- in which a cop snatched from traffic by the hungry jaws of a monster was just a throwaway figure in a fun but surface-deep framework -- this was the work of someone who considered the spirit and flesh and blood of everyone involved, even the cowardly lawyer and pudgy, scorned hacker. Films that toss off human life (singular or plural) without due cause (be it laughter or tears or something between) sicken me yet, but time has shown layers where previously none shown.

Spielberg was too experienced even at that point in his career to not be aware of an inherent silliness in the material (something Peter Jackson would fumble with in his adaptation of King Kong), and yet this awareness doesn't manifest itself as camp; it grounds the material, and with the help of technology, renders it as real as flesh and blood (Hammond's second act speech about a flea circus would be unforgivably lame if it wasn't such a blatant surrogate for Spielberg's intentions). By relocating the narrative pull away from the physical action (which is beautiful pop art) to the universal human impulses laced within (life finds a way), Spielberg elevates the material to the timelessly sublime.

It's this core of humanity that appeals to me so strongly in all of Spielberg's films, and yet he's not one without his darker sides. If Jurassic Park (and Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, and The Lost World, and Raiders of the Lost Ark, among others) tells us anything, it's that Steven likes to kill people in his movies. Humanistic or not, villains need dispatching, but his portrayals always hit a gut response of authenticity because they represent an actual loss. Nowadays, Jurassic Park's film-as-a-ride extravaganza is one of my favorite popcorn titles. And I'm entirely grateful that it, and not War of the Worlds, was there to torment my childhood.

A final tangential note: if you saw Jurassic Park at midnight at New York City's Sunshine theater early 2010 (a good showing, even if the audience was a little bit too ironic towards the movie for my taste), you'll probably remember the big audience cheer for Sam Neill when his character is introduced. Immediately following was a guy who then singly called out Laura Dern's name with meek enthusiasm. Yeah, that was me.

I love these faces.

Nedry and Hammond's past is deliberately obscured in this script. Is this line meant sincerely?

This is one of my favorite acting moments in the film. Compelled, as if by an involuntary force, to rush to the aid of the children, Alan realizes, immediately after getting the attention of the T-Rex, that he is now the prey of choice. His face twitches delightfully as he conveys dawning fear and redoubled resolution in the matter of about two seconds.

Listen at this moment for a antiquated slipping sound file, like something out of an old cartoon. Fitting.

He looked down.

What are they looking at? Limbs? Fleshy scraps?

lol

I wonder how many takes this shot required.

I love how this gotcha moment suggests greater unseen intelligence of the raptors. One of those creatures had to stuff that arm into the crevice, as if hiding all traces of themselves before the arrival of the next potential victim.

2010 might be the first year in memory where movies didn't take up the majority of my personal time (*gasp!*), a fact that was not entirely out of my control. In previous years, had I the quantity of blind spots I do now, I'd be embarrassed to post this list; much as I like them, some of the latter choices in my top ten would be likely Honorable Mention candidates and nothing more. But, I'm far more grateful for the experiences I've had than disappointed at the trips to the multiplex I missed, and I'm still of the opinion that it was a damn good year at the movies. Here's what made it worthwhile to these eyes.

10. How to Train Your Dragon (dir. Dean DeBlois & Chris Sanders) Dreamworks Animation, all your prior offenses are hereby forgiven. Although not as gorgeous as the clever, partially redemptive Kung Fu Panda, this account of a scrawny, wannabe Viking Hiccup and his determination to buck the trend is exciting, affirming, witty, and one for the permanent family film collection (just a few slots up from the directorial duo's last feature, the exquisite Lilo & Stitch).

9. Salt (dir. Phillip Noyce) To paraphrase a colleague of mine, Salt belongs on the list of "this is how it's done", it being on par with Die Hard, The Matrix and The Terminator for singular action gusto. It works fabulously whether you catch the details right away or not. At the center of the beautifully contrived plot is whirlwind Angelina Jolie: feline, brainy, secretive and utterly elemental. No sequel is necessary; the ending fade-out is the stuff of legend.

8. The Other Guys (dir. Adam McKay) The comedy of the year, The Other Guys sets Will Ferrell's laid-back zero-risk zen against Mark Wahlberg's clipped claws, they being go-nowhere cops by respective choice and circumstance. In catching the trail of a Ponzi scheme without prosecutable evidence, they unwittingly take bribes, lose all respect as officers, and get their shoes stolen, among other things. Adam McKay's finest act of absurdity yet rails against our collective financial C.F., capping it off with an end credits sequence for the ages.

7. The Fighter (dir. David O. Russell) The Fighter stands in the shadow of failure, and as only the best formulaic crowd-pleasers manage, it convinces us of the emerging victory. David O. Russell's take on this underdog tale - one fueled by the crushing effects of celebrity image, drug use, and familial over-attachment - is cheeky in its postmodern embrace. Highlights include: Christian Bale, Amy Adams, Marky Mark, the pack of velociraptors, Amy Adams, Amy Adams, rock-scored sequences, use of slow motion, and Amy Adams.

6. Prodigal Sons (dir. Kimberly Reed) The documentary of the year acts as a palate cleanser to all those snarky over-commercialized ones. Director Kimberly Reed's transsexuality is frankly unexploitative and personal, and she treats her mentally-challenged adopted brother with the same loving, unconditional directness. The discoveries that follow as she watches his grappling with life are shocking, unbelievable, and always revelatory.

5. Winter's Bone (dir. Debra Granik) An ice-cold noir in Ozarkian clothing, Winter's Bone is strictly excellent, always personal filmmaking. Drugs and murder lie just beneath the surface of this rural America, where Jennifer Lawrence's Ree must prove her court-dodging daddy's incapacitation before the bank takes her family's home away. Raw, unflinching, moving and stylistically audacious, it's the movie that Frozen River wanted to be, and more.

4. Let Me In (dir. Matt Reeves) An immediate edition to the short list of superior horror remakes, Matt Reeves' Let Me In trades the icy empathy of the 2008 Swedish original for a classic (and classy) Spielberg glow. If you haven't seen the original (it too is one of the great vampire films), it's excellent, and if you have, it might even be better. Just think: In a parallel, just universe somewhere, this was one of the box office sensations of the year, and Twilight doesn't even exist. Mmmmm.

3. Shutter Island (dir. Martin Scorsese) This hard-boiled whodunit is the stuff of criminal cliché, but furthermore, its a pulp euphoria that taps directly into our survival instincts: (self-inflicted) violence and mental repression. Martin Scorsese's role as director - world creator - has rarely been used to more appropriately contextual ends than in this heartbreaking look at love, death, and defense mechanisms. Elemental, sensual, terrifying, monolithic, and only a sane man would ask the final question.

2. The Ghost Writer (dir. Roman Polanski) Say what you will of the director, but there remains something to be said for troubled artists, and this captivating thriller adds fuel to the argument. This politico is like razor wire, cutting fast and deep and often so swift you don't even notice its cunning straight out; the final punchline gets more brutal in hindsight. What's more, as a politically conscious work, it's timely without the overt suffocation. A masterwork in all ways; if this isn't one of the ten nominees, someone in the Academy needs to be shot.

1. The Social Network (David Fincher) The role of Facebook in society isn't of direct concern here, but it's there, writ large in the context. Writer Aaron Sorkin and director David Fincher's film is about human connection in a digital society, where emotions become masked and muted by information. Luddites be damned, these portals have their own way of stagnating that which they intend to encourage; in our own way, we all become assholes. Like Fight Club, it's worthy of Kubrick, and further displays Fincher's emotional elasticity. The Trent Reznor/Atticus Ross score is unquestionably the shit, the cast is the best of the year, and the screenplay - while traditional in structure (at least by 2010 standards) - is endlessly quotable. It holds a candle to Citizen Kane, which is to say, it's a small masterpiece.

Honorable Mentions: The Crazies, The Eclipse, Greenberg, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part I, Hot Tub Time Machine, The Human Centipede (First Sequence), The Kids Are All Right, The Town, True Grit, Unstoppable

Dec 18, 2010

The Fighter (David O. Russell, 2010) If all studio movies had at least half the emotion as the crowd-pleasing The Fighter, there'd be far less to bitch about in this business of film reviewing. An exquisite example of indie sensibilities fused with mainstream cinematic formula, this Rocky-esque tale earns its way into your heart with good old-fashioned legwork, Capra-corn lite with a dusting of grit. Drug-addled family ties fuel this underdog tale of a fighter held back by his possessive and paranoid family, as well as a breathlessly genuine romantic subplot (Amy Adams, what I wouldn't do for you) and a very creepy bunch of girls who make Deliverance proud. It may not be great movie art (a distinction I care little about when I enjoy myself so much), but there's more feeling to it than most of the "great" event movies of late combined. No weak links here; Christian Bale is a standout as a crack addict. For the film and cast entire, let's hope that Oscar knows the real deal when it sees it. [Rating: 4 out of 5]

Unstoppable (Tony Scott, 2010) Confession time: This is the first Tony Scott movie I've seen, period. Seems like I've picked a good time to buck the trend, as this is as pure and breathless as damn near any mainstream action movie in recent memory. The subject matter - a massive runaway freight train carrying toxic goods through developed areas, and the scrappy efforts of money-hungry business heads and Regular Guys to stop it before derailment - has an archetypal purity, and the cast plays it as myth in action (Rosario Dawson in particular lends a quotidian balance). The shaky-queasy camera is used tightly, sparingly, like thick brush strokes; like Michael Bay, Scott's stylistic hang-ups are becoming instinctive, fluid and, dare I say, artful. Looks like I'll be catching up on Top Gun soon. Appropriately trashy, single-mindedly visceral and free of all excess, Unstoppable promises, and delivers. [Rating: 4 out of 5]

Burlesque (Steve Antin, 2010) If Showgirls is the Mt. Everest of self-reflexive, faux-trashy cinematic subversion, Burlesque is that hill from that Hugh Grant movie. Small potatoes to Verhoeven's masterpiece, however, are still quite good, and what astonishes most about this debut feature of pop singer Christina Aguilera is its total absence of irony (I suppose we've come to expect it). Chances are you know you've seen this movie before, before you even watch it, and the filmmakers play against that expectation in frequent character asides that refreshingly strain and deviate from the domino-like plot structure. Stanley Tucci's queer eye and Cher's dictatorial command cushion contrast the wide-eyed determination of Aguilera's aspiring dancer Ali; between a rock and a hard place, she emerges like a butterfly from a weather-worn cocoon. The film recycles cliches with feeling, verve, and savory camp wit; its purity is close to that of Speed Racer. [Rating: 3.5 out of 5]

Dec 5, 2010

Black Swan (Darren Aronofsky, 2010) Clearly the work of a talent, Black Swan is also indicative of Darren Aronofsky's creative weaknesses as a filmmaker – shortcomings, mind you, that he has largely avoided, or put to good use, in all of his previous films. But this tale of Nina Sayers (Natalie Portman), an obsessive, self-destructive dancer intent on landing the lead role in the titular play, feels more like a deliberate stylistic exercise than a legitimate act of creation: it invites the common criticism that Aronofsky's style is technically proficient but soulless. The gonzo visual design – grainy handheld camerawork, desaturated colors, and a frequently implemented rotation shot that suggests an inverted fish-eyed lens – is ultimately one lacking much in the way of genuine subtext. What you see is what you get, and pretty as everything is, nothing is allowed to simmer long enough to accrue much meaning or verve – it doesn't even invite comparative thoughts of Aronofsky's own obsessive creative processes. It would be unfair to bring up Mulholland Dr. for comparison, but even unto itself, Black Swan's purported mindfuck is exceedingly low on legitimate crazies (I'm looking at you, derivative mirror freak-outs, here a totally wasted sight gag), and with credibility-stretching gotcha! moments peppered throughout like half-hearted Polanski shout-outs, only sporadically does it manage to rise above a connect-the-dots Pysch 101 thesis programmed with base stimuli. Clint Mansell's score propels Nina's psycho-sexual breakdown with ravenous thrust, but the screenplay by Mark Heyman, Andres Heinz and John McLaughlin (commissioned by Aronofsky, who worked on several versions of it over the past decade) grounds things in an embarrassingly creaky psycho-mother device. Everything comes out too neat and tidy to court true madness: a few scenes added or a few scenes removed would likely be a step in the right direction, just to take off the Pavlovian edge. Aronofsky's fingerprints make this worthwhile for his fans, but his connection to the material seems more professional than personal – he fails to make us feel why. Portman is fearless and grounded; even Barbra Hershey, whose part, as Nina's controlling mother, is a thankless rut, manages something in the way of characterization (her nuance makes the script's two-dimensionality hurt). The finale – sharp, unapologetic, and something close to schizoid – is inspired, and, like a handful of other sequences, worth rooting around for. But the film entire doesn't earn it. [Rating: 3.5 out of 5]

Let Me In (Matt Reeves, 2010)Let the Right One In gets something of a tonal inversion in the remake Let Me In, a triumph of imaginative, intelligent adaptation and breathtakingly assured direction; it joins Werner Herzog's Nosferatu and David Cronenberg's The Fly as one of the greatest horror movie remakes. It might even be better than Thomas Alfredson's excellent 2008 original (as singular as any vampire film); each is now better for the other having existed, too. The template is the same: Abby (Chloe Grace Moretz) is a normal 12-year-old girl in appearance, but has been so for many years as a vampire (blood, good; normal food, bad; daylight, very bad); she has a human partner of sorts (Richard Jenkins) who aids in the necessary killings to gather her required food. They've just moved into the same apartment complex as Owen (Kodi Smit-McPhee), an actual 12-year-old staying with his mother during a heated divorce and frequent target of bullies at school. The two loners first meet in the courtyard; what develops bears a certain childhood-pure love that frequently touches profundity. Whereas Let the Right One In was cold, transient and light on action, Let Me In basks in a glow of circa-1982 Spielberg nostalgia. Changes from the original script are light (a botched murder attempt is reworked here in a boffo car sequence), so what you're getting is something not unlike the same song from a different instrument. The director, Matt Reeves (of the good-but-not-great Cloverfield), displays heretofore unseen levels of talent; the veteran and child actors are entirely excellent, tragic, and heartbreaking. Let the Right One In may be the better film, but I think I prefer the B-side. [Rating: 4 out of 5] (both)

Casino Jack (George Hickenlooper, 2010) Purporting subversion via its plots indictment of corrupt financial establishments, the social timeliness of Casino Jack nevertheless proves unable to transcend crutch-bearing lip service to an undemanding middlebrow taste (the opening “based on a true story” tag is the first tell). Angry but ultimately aimless, it embodies the apathy of all those bad liberals who talk about how terrible things are and continue about their day. Chronicling the events leading up to the conviction of former “superlobbyist” Jack Abramoff (Kevin Spacey), the implied critique of lobbying – the means by which cash is permitted to influence votes in Congress – is one-note and, unless you've been living under a rock for the past few years, far from revelatory and quite tame where it intends to infuriate. The script, by Norman Snider, is too reliant on Abramoff as a relatable surrogate to genuinely scrutinize him and his behavior – he stays warm and fuzzy compared to the reptile he should be – and although Spacey is fine to watch, he can't elevate a whitewashed script and insufficient character material. The film itself feels dispirited, all action and no thought. A handful of framing devices are the only memorable bits; Casino Jack never elevates itself above the ideologically confused and comedically lukewarm (Jon Lovitz is wasted, Barry Pepper miscast, etc.). It mistakes entertainment for enlightenment and frivolity for expose. [Rating: 2 out of 5]

Legion (Scott Charles Stewart, 2010)Legion kicks ass in fits and spurts. Things go Night of the Living Dead-meets-The Terminator at an isolated highway diner when an elderly patron starts babbling obscenities about death before mutating into a wall-crawling, scraggly-toothed menace. She's an angel, one of countless revealing themselves on Earth in a divinely mandated mission to kill Charlie (Adrianne Palicki), a waitress on site, whose unborn baby is destined to save mankind. Some earnest genre thrills are had – the cast, particularly Dennis Quaid, is entirely game for the material – but Legion ultimately flounders on the points of brevity and redundancy; the payoff starts too soon, and when we finally get to the climactic showdown between Paul Bettany's heavenly renegade Michael and the still-working-for-God Gabriel (Kevin Durand; razorblade wings are tops), the movie can't help but be staying out its welcome. A few minutes shorter, and an ending that doesn't outright quote the beginning of the movie, and we might have had something special here. [Rating: 3 out of 5]

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 1 (David Yates, 2010) I'm no expert on the subject matter, but I've read the entirety of J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series, enjoyed all (Year 2 was shaky, though), and chastised none of the respective films for the disinclusion of any particulars from their source material (I'm no fan of certain reworkings in Half-Blood Prince, but those are dramatic issues, not fan squabblings). Cut from largely the same cloth as its promising, flawed predecessor, this first half of The Deathly Hollows feels scraggly and, even unto its abridged self, a bit incomplete; all the better for a tale of refugees living moment to moment, unsure of their next move, and continuously being pushed to the edge of their resolve. For you muggles, an escalating war in the wizarding world has forced Harry and his two chief cohorts to flee for their lives; the dark side, aka the Death Eaters, have infiltrated society and now pull many powerful strings. Although his poeticism falls short of its intended reach (the film only almost jumps off the screen), David Yates remains the best director the series has seen after Alfonso Cuarón (whose Prisoner of Azkaban remains tops). Awkward longings and impenetrable adolescent emotions make this something of an angst-ridden chamber piece. Yates doesn't let the action turn visceral, and even when people are together, loneliness abounds (to think of what Werner Herzog would have done with the passages in the forest!). Judging by this first half, this touchstone series is well on its way to getting the sendoff it deserves. [Rating: 4 out of 5]

Nov 29, 2010

Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy (Adam McKay, 2004) Adam McKay's debut feature is a freewheeling ode to the scatological and puerile, and on those base terms, it's nearly perfect. Will Ferrell is the titular news anchor, an oafish personality equal parts confident, idiotic and adored (when found to be hitting on a girl unaware of his celebrity, he blabbers, eventually finding the words “I own many leather-bound books, and my apartment smells of rich mahogany”). Ferrell sells masculine insolence with Shakespearean conviction and something like gravitas; his minions – the overenthused jock Champ Kind (David Koechner), self-absorbed Brian Fantana (Paul Rudd) and mentally challenged Brick Tamland (Steve Carell) – round out the comedic archetypes. It's a great stupid comedy for smart people. Newcomer Veronica Corningstone (Christina Applegate) plays the straight man to their horseplay – it's the 70s and she's breaking ground as a female anchor – before subsiding to Burgundy's inexplicable charm. The film's riffing of the era is light and incidental; after the sublime skewering of media whoremongering (best rendered via the hilarious story of a pregnant panda), it's the shameless gender dynamics that receive the most time in the spotlight of this breezy palate-cleanser. Though never more than a romp, it's a hell of a good (and good-hearted) one. Quotability abounds, and Steve Carell steals the show; McKay knows how to use his actors. The PG-13 version is preferable; one "fuck" goes a long way. [Rating: 4 out of 5]

Resident Evil: Afterlife (Paul W.S. Anderson, 2010) While disappointing compared to director Anderson's previous picture - the borderline transcendent vision of colliding metal and flesh that was Death Race - Resident Evil: Afterlife nevertheless reveals itself as something of an heir to the anti-masterpiecedom of Plan 9 From Outer Space, Ed Wood's 1950s invasion saga being routinely named the worst movie ever made. Afterlife is more self-aware than Plan 9, which is expected for a film made in 3D (an almost sublime implementation, a rare success here for the format) but also necessary in justifying the singularly mindless forthrightness of the proceedings. It's drunk on overwrought visceral hooey and a near-total lack of concern for everything else. The fourth in the series, this music video/video game hybrid super-streamlines the narrative even at the expense of minor continuity (the DVD needs to come with a drinking game feature, do you hear me Sony?) to somewhat incredible effect (Afterlife is too smartly made to not be deliberately stupid). This retarded effect proves almost intoxicating amidst the chic gloss; the film is almost profoundly lightweight. Easily the best of the bunch, the postmodern Afterlife is close to great trash. [Rating: 3.5 out of 5]

The Town (Ben Affleck, 2010) There's no sophomore slump for Ben Affleck, who leaves a far more indelible mark on the crime genre here than in his wan, if thoughtful debut Gone Baby Gone. On paper, The Town is awash in clichés but they're pitched with real texture and pathos; you might not even notice. Affleck lends the material an everyday, everymanness without sacrificing artistry (on both sides of the camera; he plays the lead), and events unfold with graceful ease. As a friend closer than family to Affleck's Doug MacRay, Jeremy Renner is an utter chameleon as Bahstan hothead James Coughlin, a prison vet ready to put it all on the line again for the mandatory Last Big Score. An opening crawl informs us that this town has spawned more bank and armored car thieves than any other in the world. Cop and robber antics are presented as matter-of-fact, methodical, and often nasty (in both directions) so as to cut through the yellow tape; there may be no more chilling moment this year than when someone decides to look the other way (and nor do we blame them). A centerpiece heist holds a candle to Michael Mann's Heat. The cast is uniformly game, restrained, earthy, and will probably prove superior to at least half of those nominated for Oscars next year. [Rating: 4 out of 5]

Oceans (Jacques Perrin and Jacques Cluzaud, 2009)Oceans is fine in its stateside, theatrically-released form, with a voiceover by Pierce Brosnan that's notable for achieving Disneyland tactfulness without actually triggering the gag reflex. Nevertheless, in literalizing so much of what's onscreen, this verbal narrative can't help but detract from the awe-inspiring images. If possible for yourself, I say it's preferable to watch the film with an alternate language track sans subtitles; the DVD and Blu-ray releases offer English, Spanish and French language tracks, so assuming you're not trilingual, go for it). A success in purely visual storytelling, Oceans somehow squashes the largest ecosystem on Earth into Happy Meal form while still maintaining a sense of wonder. Jaw-dropping images aplenty; a sequence in which birds and dolphins feast on a school of fish must be seen to be believed, while a humorous scuffle between a shrimp and lobster is better than anything in Iron Man 2. Compactly profound, appropriately humbling, and this is just the tip of the iceberg. [Rating: 4 out of 5]

Easy A (Will Gluck, 2010) Forgive me for this: Easy A gets a B for effort but it's really C grade material. Critically thoughtful but only almost subversive, this star vehicle for the badass beauty that is Emma Stone looks at the social mechanics of peer pressure and rumor corrosion but never really fully considers them; it's Daria, de-fanged. Straddling an uneasy line between caricature and satire, Will Gluck's follow-up to Fired Up! (making this probably the film improvement of the year) chronicles the domino effect that ensues when 17-year-old Olive (Stone) agrees to “date” her gay friend so as to alleviate his everyday difficulties in a homophobic environment: he compensates her financially, and she agrees to a public stunt and the allowance of subsequent gossip. Soon, a business is established: Anyone in need of faux sex status is a welcome customer to the socially defiant, steadfastly virginal renegade. Certainly better than your average piece of American Pie backwash, Easy A still panders to the knee-jerk crowd it aims to be so critical of, wasting its not insubstantial comedic energy on pedestrian histrionics and, at a few moments, proving downright infuriating in its handling of the material. (Inconsistent with the thoughtful Olive’s personality is her having to re-read “The Scarlet Letter” for basics anyone could have gathered from a review pamphlet.) Eventually, lessons are learned and happily ever after ensues. Competent direction only almost compensates for the half-baked script; Stone elevates the material to the near sublime in its best moments. [Rating: 3 out of 5]

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo (Niels Arden Oplev, 2009) As a page-turner, this is understandably – maybe even defensibly – hot shit. But on the basis of the much-lauded roll of celluloid posing as an actual movie known as The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, this solemn soap opera wank job already stands a chance at the title of Skankiest Film of the Decade. It plays like TV, but it's awful however you cut it. The whodunit, gender-conscious plot is beside the point; the talent of the performers seems drawn into a black hole, equal parts lurid sensation and gutless titillation. But it's not even enjoyable trash; it's witless, suit-and-tie porn posing as Great Art. That David Fincher is attached to the American remake is fitting for material that suggests a wannabe Seven in Da Vinci Code robes of nothingness. [Rating: 1 out of 5]

Scott Pilgrim vs. the World (Edgar Wright, 2010) This intoxicating contraption approaches one-of-a-kind wonder but drops the ball pretty much instantly; how did this overburdened and confused script make its way to production? Edgar Wright's ode to videogame adoration and unrequited teenage love has enough conceptual vigor and idiosyncratic awesomeness for three movies, but most of that kinetic energy fizzles when the deadweight annoyance that is the titular characters girlfriend Knives (Ellen Wong) is either onscreen or guiding the action (read: most of the time). Pivoting primarily on Scott's (Michael Cera) longing for the elusive punk princess Ramona (Mary Elizabeth Winstead), Pilgrim's decision to complicate his head-over-heels attraction with issues of emotional codependency and infidelity renders what should have been an expressionistic act of postmodern genius as something akin to a bad high school soap opera. Scott's issues stop inviting pity and start inviting scorn; unrectified, they just sit there, while the nails-on-chalkboard Knives further suffers as the most developed character of the lot (she's too grounded here to act as a mere point of flagellation; on the manga page the film was adapted from, she probably has more room to breath). The high points – the opening credits, Scott's various CG-tinged "battles" with Ramona's former boyfriends, and other sequences host to Wright's tripped-out, button-mashing embellishments – are worth the slog, but it essentially amounts to a case of what could have been. [Rating: 3 out of 5]

Oct 1, 2010

Can any war film rival the dual spiritual uplift and ethereal horror of The Thin Red Line? Adapted from the novel of the same name by WWII veteran James Jones and itself based on his own wartime experiences at the Battle of Guadalcanal, Terrence Malick's 1998 epic is many things: a tone poem, an action film, a philosophical statement, a religiously attuned wartime rumination on the very fabric of existence.